


Closer Than This

by sequence_fairy



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Soulmarks, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-08 04:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: “They turn red don’t they? When you and your soulmate sync up?” Shane asks.“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, “but what does that have to do with anything?”“Have you considered maybe that it’s turning red?”Shane’s question goes through Ryan like a knife. He hadn’t really thought about that, in his late night panic in front of his bathroom mirror the previous night. Looking back, he wonders why he hadn’t. But now he has to know who his soulmate is, ‘cause the marks don’t turn red until both people have admitted their feelings. To themselves, at the very least.“But I can’t have feelings for someone who I don’t even know,” Ryan argues.Ryan's soulmark is changing colour. Shane does not believe in this soulmate, fated by the universe, malarky.





	Closer Than This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaya4114](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaya4114/gifts).

> Welcome to the vaunted soulmark AU, loosely based on [this post](https://kaya4114.tumblr.com/post/185371136445/soulmate-au) and requested by Kye.
> 
> Thanks to [Jenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mukemagic) and [Kels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlyrose) for beta help and to my writing servers for everyone's encouragement. 
> 
> I am entirely too pleased to use the Idiots to Lovers tag and hope that going forward, everyone else who writes these two nerds falling in love while they're both too stupid to realise it, uses it too.

Ryan notices the change on a Tuesday morning when he catches himself in the floor-length mirror of the hotel bathroom near the airport in Cincinnati. His mark has always been inert; a deeper brown than his own skin, about the size of his thumbprint, just above the swell of his ass. Ryan twists, staring down at his own butt in the mirror, looking at the way the mark has changed to a deep, almost bruised, yellow. 

The thing about the marks is, the reason for the change could be a whole host of things. He might’ve met someone, he might’ve deepened an existing relationship. Ryan believes in the stories his mum’s been telling him since he was a little kid: how his mark will change colour once he meets his soulmate, how their marks will change in tandem as they get closer to each other, and how, eventually, they will go brilliant scarlet, when the love is in full bloom. His mum’s is on the back of her knee. It has always been the deep crimson of abiding love and while he’s never seen his dad’s, Ryan knows his is the same colour. 

Not everyone has a mark, Ryan knows, and not everyone is as observant of theirs as he is. Shane, for instance, has loudly proclaimed on several occasions that the whole thing is fucking nonsense, and that he doesn’t give a shit about soul marks or fate or any of that bullshit. He’d been so vehement about it, when Ryan had brought it up the first time, that Ryan hasn’t ever brought it up since. 

Ryan sighs and tears his eyes away from his mark. He finishes towelling off, and pulls on the faded flannel pajama pants he’d brought along with a soft shirt from an old merch line for Unsolved. On the other side of the closed bathroom door, a canned laugh track spills out of the TV. It cuts off abruptly. Shane must have changed the channel. Ryan rubs the towel across his hair one more time before hanging it up and opening the door. 

Shane’s taken up residence on the bed furthest from the door, as per usual. He’s sprawled on his back, head propped up on a pile of pillows and the remote resting on his chest. The TV is showing the channel guide, and Shane is slowly scrolling, using one finger on the arrow key on the remote. He looks exhausted. 

“Shower’s all yours, man,” Ryan says, and Shane rolls his head so he can look at Ryan. 

“Thanks,” Shane says, noncommittally. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, “just tired.” He gives up on the TV remote, tossing it in the direction of the other bed. His throw is just short and the remote lands on the floor instead. Shane sighs, a deeply put upon sound. 

“Sorry for keeping you up last night,” Ryan says, acutely aware that it is absolutely his fault that Shane hasn’t slept for longer than a couple of hours in the last 36. 

Shane waves him off with a flap of his hand. “Naw, man, I was tired before we left for this shoot. It’s just catching up with me now.” 

“Still,” Ryan hedges, wanting to say more, but not sure how to apologize in a different way for what he has already apologized for. 

Shane interrupts by heaving himself off his bed and rummaging through his duffel bag before brushing past Ryan and heading into the bathroom. Ryan shrugs. Shane needs sleep. They both do. Ryan bends down to retrieve the remote control before settling onto his own bed. He shifts, very aware suddenly, of the location of his soulmark.

Ryan falls asleep to the sound of Shane getting comfortable in the bed next to him and forgets entirely about the change to his soulmark. 

Three weeks later, Shane reminds him of its existence. 

“You know,” Shane says, in between shovelling mouthfuls of lo mein into his mouth, long fingers wrapped carefully around a pair of chopsticks. “You’re always on about soulmarks, what do you think about the whackjob guys on YouTube who say they’re like, alien abduction marks?” 

Ryan, who is focused a little too deeply on the way the chopsticks move in Shane’s hands, takes a moment to answer. “Actually,” Ryan says, and then puts up a hand to stop Shane from interrupting him. “No, wait. It’s–it’s not–_ anyway _, what I was going to say was that all the abduction accounts I’ve read are from people who don’t have marks.”

“So, no aliens then?” Shane asks, chopsticks paused between his mouth and the bowl of noodles in front of him. 

“I didn’t say that,” Ryan says, and then sighs. “Never mind,” he says, going back to pouring cherry sauce onto his fried rice. Shane makes a face at him, but Ryan ignores him. Shane’s thing against covering everything on his combination plate with red sauce is a personal problem that Ryan doesn’t have time to handle for him. 

Shane shovels more noodles into his mouth and then carefully picks out a sparerib. Ryan catches the moment Shane’s mastery of chopsticks fails him and the sparerib lands in his lap. 

“Aw, man,” Shane complains, setting his chopsticks down. “These’re new pants.”

Ryan laughs, but tosses Shane a handful of napkins anyway. 

– – 

Ryan had met Shane on day three of working at Buzzfeed. They’d been thrown together in the intern pool and had made fast friends over a shared love of Chipotle and cheap beer. Once through orientation, they’d been assigned desks beside each other. It had been easy enough to keep up the friendship after that, and they’d never really stopped. 

Chatting at their desks between meetings had turned into running out for lunch together, had turned into regular movie nights with enough popcorn to feed a small country, had turned into drinks out at the local dive bar at least once a month. 

It was on one of those dive bar nights that Ryan broached the topic of soulmarks. They’d been drinking and absently sharing a bowl of peanuts when Ryan had wondered if Shane believed in soulmarks. Shane had looked up from where he was pushing his finger through the ring of condensation on the tabletop and his mouth had twisted. 

“You don’t really believe in that shit, do you?” Shane had asked. 

“Are you really surprised?” Ryan had retorted and Shane had shaken his head, lifting his beer to his lips. “Well?” Ryan pressed, “do you believe in them?” 

Shane did not believe. 

He did not believe in anything. Not soulmarks, not ghosts, not demons, nothing. The absolute skeptic to Ryan’s absolute believer. The bluntness of Shane’s resolute skepticism surprised Ryan, because before this, Shane had never seemed like someone who wouldn’t be willing to be proven wrong, he had seemed open to things and experiences, and it had rocked Ryan to the core, and he had quietly set some new boundaries on their friendship. 

Shane hadn’t seemed to mind the distancing, had thrown himself into his own work, and the weekly movie nights had trailed off to monthly and then only very rarely and then not at all. They still had lunch together several times a week, had fun at after work social events, but the relationship cooled in a noticeable way. Ryan tried not to let it bother him how little it seemed to bother Shane. 

Therefore, it surprised the hell out of Ryan some years later when, as nearly a last resort, he’d asked Shane to come along on an Unsolved trip after Brent had ducked out for other pastures and Shane hadn’t hesitated to say yes.

The whirlwind that is Unsolved had driven Ryan’s questions about soulmarks and Shane’s vehement answer to the back of Ryan’s mind. 

So much so that he’d forgotten about it at all. 

– –

After noticing the colour change in Cincinnati, Ryan checks his soulmark more often than he has in years. He contorts himself in his bathroom in the morning, checking to see whether the colour has changed or whether anything else has changed. He wonders daily who is responsible for the change and whether theirs has changed too and if they’ve noticed or not. 

He wonders where Shane’s mark is. 

It’s late morning on a Friday when Ryan finds out. 

He and Shane have been tapped to help out with a project involving an obscene amount of blue popsicles and several large vats of jello. Ryan figures that eventually he will run out of ways to be surprised by the things Buzzfeed gets up to, but for now, he hasn’t found the bottom of that particular well. Shane takes a long look around the studio and then his gaze finds Ryan’s. 

Shane lifts one eyebrow and Ryan can read the question on his face, plain as day. Ryan shrugs. Shane sucks on his teeth, air whistling in and then he looks at Ryan again. Shane’s eyes are wide behind the clear frames of his glasses, almost beseeching. 

Somewhere on the other side of the room, someone drops a jar of jam with a crash of glass. Someone else whoops and Shane’s shoulders tighten. Ryan isn’t sure if anyone who doesn’t spend 75% of their day with Shane would notice, but Ryan’s always been a little more in tune with Shane than anyone else, which he figures is a side-effect of spending so much time on the road together. 

Casting a look over at where the other folks pulled in for this video are milling about next to a counter covered in spoons, Ryan grabs Shane’s arm and pulls him off towards the far wall, into the shadow cast by the floor lamps. Shane follows, allowing himself to be led. Once they are out of the glare of the lights, Ryan turns around, looking up at Shane. 

“You okay?” 

Shane grimaces. “I really thought we were done with this,” he says, mostly under his breath, but clear enough that Ryan can hear him. 

“Not into sticking your feet into vats of jello?” Ryan asks. Shane scrunches his nose. 

“Are you?” 

Ryan’s face splits into a real smile. “C’mon man, it’ll be fun.” 

Shane hesitates. Ryan isn’t sure why, but there’s something more to this than putting his feet into jello for the sake of getting some views. 

“What’s really bothering you?” Ryan asks, careful. 

“It’s silly,” Shane says. 

Ryan sniffs, shaking his head. “Can’t be,” he disagrees, and then waits for Shane to speak. 

“I don’t like to be barefoot,” Shane answers, finally. 

“Is that all?” Ryan asks, and Shane’s eyebrows draw down like he’s going to protest. “Shane, man, no one’s gonna see your feet in all that jello, and I’ll be right there, okay?” Ryan reaches out to punctuate his declaration with a fleeting touch to the back of Shane’s arm. Nothing special happens when he does, but the contact leaves Ryan a bit breathless regardless. 

Ryan squares his shoulders, and steps away from Shane, back into the glare of the studio lights. He lifts a hand in a wave to Jen, and doesn’t look back to see if Shane is following him. 

The shoot is pretty self-explanatory, and Ryan strips out of his shoes and socks without a care, wiggling his toes on the cool floor. Shane drops heavily into the chair next to him and leans down to undo his own shoes. He takes a while, carefully loosening the laces and then pulling his feet out and lining his shoes up precisely beside him. Ryan watches as Shane’s shoulders shift with his deep inhale and then he leans forward again to pull off his socks. 

Shane’s feet are pretty normal, in Ryan’s opinion. Long toes, and delicate arches, sure, but no weird marks or bumps or anything else that might make a man uncomfortable about showing off his feet. There’s no way to let Shane know his feet aren’t weird without making it weird, so Ryan says nothing, and lifts his gaze up from the floor to land instead on Shane’s profile. Shane is staring down at his feet, and Ryan can see the downturn of Shane’s mouth as Shane rolls up the cuffs of his pants. 

“Alright!” Jen calls, clapping her hands for emphasis. “Let’s get this show on the road.” 

Shane meets Ryan’s gaze and then heaves himself out of the chair and pads over to where she’s explaining the concept. Ryan follows, and as he does, he happens to look down. When he notices it, he freezes briefly. Shane’s mark is on his heel. It’s a smudged yellow-green, like an old bruise. 

The rest of the shoot goes off without a hitch, even though Ryan can’t keep his mind on what he’s supposed to be doing and he and Shane lose spectacularly in this ridiculous game someone has thought up for them all to play on company time. Shane’s grinning though, and Ryan can’t stop watching the curve of Shane’s mouth, can’t stop thinking about the fact that Shane’s soulmark is the same colour as his own. That Shane, avowed skeptic, has a soulmark in the first place. 

Ryan knows the fact that their marks are sort of the same colour is pure happenstance. It’s not even like he can make sure that Shane’s is the same shape as his own, which would be more telling, especially since Shane is very clearly sore on that subject. It makes Ryan wonder why Shane’s so against the very concept of soulmarks, and the immediate thought that seizes him as he’s toweling off his feet after rinsing jello out from between his toes, is that somehow, Shane’s been hurt. 

Ryan’s suddenly nerveless fingers drop the towel. He leans down to get it, and in doing so, catches another glimpse of Shane’s mark, as Shane dries his own feet. Shane’s focused on what he’s doing, but Ryan still snaps his eyes back to his hands and fumbles for the towel on the floor in front of him. Heat curls against the back of his neck at the thought that Shane might catch him staring. 

– – 

Soulmarks are private. You shouldn’t ask people about them, especially shouldn’t ask to see someone else’s. Ryan remembers his mother explaining this to him as a kid, and his innocent misunderstanding of how were you supposed to find out if someone’s matched yours, then? And his mother smiling gently, softly, and cupping his cheek, and whispering that he would know when the time came, and wouldn’t he like to take the dog out into the yard to play?

Ryan rolls over in bed, reaching out to grab his phone off the bedside table. It’s early still. The light that filters in through his curtains is pale and washed out. Ryan curls tighter into his blanket, and pokes his phone into life. His Twitter notifications are a nightmare, as usual, but he does like to see what people have tagged him in, especially when it’s theories or spooky things their fans have found for him. Ryan scrolls down through his mentions, liking things and bookmarking other tweets to look at more closely later. 

Eventually, Ryan gets up and leaves his phone in his bedroom while he putters through his morning routine. It’s a Saturday, so he doesn’t really have anywhere to be. His apartment is quiet, rain still falling softly outside. Ryan slides his patio door open to let in the air. Rain in LA is something he’s always loved. It makes the city smell good and green and after, the air always feels fresher, swept clean of the nearly ever-present smog.

Coffee in hand, Ryan leans against the doorframe, watching the rain. 

Later that day, standing in front of his bathroom mirror, Ryan checks his own mark. It has changed again. It’s greener now. The toothpaste in his hand clatters to the floor. 

– – 

In the privacy of his own home, Shane reaches down to pull off his shoe and sock, lifting his leg up onto the opposite knee so he can look at the sole of his own foot. The mark has changed colour again. It’s been on a steady shift since they’d been in Cincinnati. The mark is shaped like a fingerprint, curving up over the back of his heel, like someone with smaller thumbs than him has pressed it into his skin. 

Shane lets his foot drop back to the floor. He leans back against his couch, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling of his living room. If Ryan were here, he’d tell him it was simple, that Shane and his soulmate were getting closer, that they’d started to deepen the relationship, becoming the kind of really good friends Shane always used to envy in his peers as a kid. He sighs, pulling one hand down his face, and then letting it fall beside him onto the couch. 

It’s not that simple though. 

It’s easy enough to say he’s been burned, but that doesn’t quite cover the devastation of it. Even now, he doesn’t really like to think about it, there’s still a part of him that remains shriveled and maimed from the shattering of that relationship. It hadn’t been pretty, by any stretch. Shane’s not really given to dramatics, never mind the persona he puts on for the camera, but he’d been really very in love, and she’d … well. It’s better that he doesn’t follow that rabbit hole down to where it leads. Shane is very familiar with the pit at the bottom and knows himself well enough to know that he doesn’t want to go back there. 

He flips the track switch on the train of thought and focuses instead on Ryan. Ryan, who has been twitchier than usual lately. Ryan, who touched him at the shoot yesterday. Ryan, who believes in shit like soulmates and fate, and trusts the universe to provide. Shane wishes he had even half of Ryan’s faith in some kind of grander plan. He doesn’t though, just faith in what his own two hands have wrought. 

His apartment is too quiet. 

Shane heaves himself to his feet, pushing a hand through his hair and then shuffles into his kitchen. It’s late enough in the day now that he can justify making dinner, so he puts together a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches and carries the plate back to the living room, one foot still bare. 

It’s odd, he thinks, while he demolishes the first sandwich, that Ryan hasn’t ever brought up his own soulmark. In all the time Shane has known Ryan, they’ve really only talked about soulmarks once. Shane will cop to having been a bit overly brusque about brushing Ryan off, but that’s never really stopped Ryan before. It’s weird. Shane picks up the nearly empty glass of water he’d poured himself a lot earlier in the day. The mouthful that remains is lukewarm. 

Shane swirls it around his mouth and then swallows, and picks up the next half-sandwich. He’d bought the cheese slices on a whim while wandering around at Target the previous week, half killing time and half trying to distract himself from the loneliness of being single in his early 30s. He’d been drawn to the packaging in the same way they’d drawn him in as a kid. Bright blue and orange and the promise of gooey melted cheese. He figures not too many people his age regularly eat these things that are only vaguely related to actual cheese, but the nostalgia factor is high and he’d needed some comfort. 

He scarfs the last half a sandwich, licking gooey cheese off his fingers when he’s done. When he’d been a kid, his mum had always served these with off-brand cream of tomato soup. Shane pushes his plate away, and reaches for the remote, stopping Netflix’s mindless marathon of an early season of The Office. Stretching out onto his side, Shane navigates back to the homescreen and puts on a nature documentary, setting the autoplay and letting everything else fade into the background, something deep inside him soothed by the gentle narration and the vibrant, saturated colour. 

Shane wakes up to a crick in his neck and Netflix rolling through title cards for shows he’ll never watch. He turns everything off and gets up, pushing one hand through his hair as he pads down the hallway to his bedroom. Shane strips haphazardly, leaving his clothes in a heap and then slides into bed, taking his glasses off and placing them carelessly on his bedside table.

The warm abyss of sleep rises up to meet him and Shane sinks into its embrace without resistance. 

– – 

The following week, Ryan brings up the subject of soulmarks again. He’s cornered Shane at their desk space, both of them picking at script projects and neither of them getting very far. It’s Friday afternoon and Shane’s been staring at the clock in the bottom right hand of his screen willing it to be 5pm since about 11:30 this morning. 

“I know you don’t believe in soulmarks and whatever,” Ryan starts, and Shane slides his quiet headphones off one ear. Shane had turned off his Spotify list an hour ago because somehow he’d fallen into a shuffle consisting exclusively of soulmate love songs and when he’d gone to change the playlist, he’d been unable to decide what the listen to next. Ryan takes the removal of one headphone as an indication to continue, so he does. “But, I just … “ Ryan stops, and Shane turns to look at him. 

Ryan is chewing on his bottom lip, and he won’t quite meet Shane’s gaze. 

“What’s that?” Shane asks, feigning having not heard him. 

Ryan shrugs. “Nothing, man.” 

Shane sighs. “Naw, dude, don’t pull that shit with me. Something’s bothering you. Spill, Bergara.”

Ryan lifts his hands off his desk and settles them in his lap. Shane would bet he’s twisting his fingers around themselves. Ryan’s got a habit of fidgeting when he’s nervous, Shane is very much aware. 

“My mark has changed colour,” Ryan admits. 

“Oh?” Shane asks, turning himself on his chair to face Ryan. Ryan doesn’t look at him. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Means you and your soulmate are getting close, right?” 

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, but doesn’t sound convinced. 

“What’s the problem, buddy? Tell ol’ Madej your worries, young grasshopper.” 

“Jesus, Shane,” Ryan wheezes, but some of the tension has bled out of his shoulders. “I guess it’s just that I’m not sure who it is, you know?” Ryan shrugs, and finally looks up at Shane. His brow is furrowed. Shane waits him out. It doesn’t take very long. “I mean, I obviously know them, ‘cause the mark is turning green and clearly that means we are friends,” Ryan continues, looking down at his lap again. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Ry,” Shane says, “I’m sure whoever it is thinks the world of you.” 

Ryan flushes. Shane does not look. He turns back to his own workstation instead, trying to pick up the thread of his editing decisions again. Silence descends between them and Shane thinks Ryan has gone back to working on whatever script he’s writing. 

“What about yours?” Ryan asks, startling Shane into dropping the pen he’s fiddling with while he ponders an animation loop. 

“What about my what?” Shane asks, buying himself some time. He knows what Ryan’s asking about. 

“Your soulmark,” Ryan says, leaning in so they don’t have to broadcast this conversation across the office. 

“You know it’s impolite to ask people that,” Shane admonishes. He pulls his headphones down all the way and settles them around his neck. 

Ryan dismisses Shane’s opinion with a flap of his hand. 

“Man, you are full-on rude today,” Shane grouses. It’s not that he doesn’t think Ryan and him are close enough to talk about this, certainly Ryan has talked about it to other people, but Shane’s not really up to talking about anything else about the subject, and Ryan will, as Ryan always does, have questions. Questions Shane is sure he doesn’t want to answer. Shane pushes a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. 

“Look,” Shane says, after a minute, “it’s not really something I like to talk about, okay? Can you just …” Shane spreads his hands between them, palms up. “Especially not here,” Shane says, after catching Ryan’s eye. 

“I just wanted to know–” 

“Ryan, Jesus, take a fucking hint will you?”

Ryan puts his hands up in surrender and backs off. “Sorry,” he mutters. His shoulders curl in on themselves, and Ryan turns back to his own monitor.

Shane sighs, and scrubs a hand across his face and then back through his hair. “I’m sorry too,” he says, on the heels of another long exhale. 

The office is quieter now than it had been, people leaving early for the weekend, but there’s still probably too many gossipy ears around. Shane doesn’t want to have this conversation here. 

“I’m done for the day,” he says, pushing himself away from his desk. “Wanna grab a drink?” 

Ryan huffs, but he nods and starts packing up. Shane undocks his laptop, and bends down to drag his bag out from under his desk to drop it onto his chair. Beside him, Ryan is piling up his notebooks. Shane shoves his laptop into his bag, then piles his headphones in after it. He straightens to find Ryan waiting for him, snapback pulled down over his head, and coat collar turned up pre-emptively against the late fall chill that awaits them outside. Shane slings on his hoodie, then pulls his coat on after it. 

“Ready?” Ryan asks, and Shane motions him to lead the way. Ryan does.

– – 

They find themselves in a trying-too-hard-to-be-a-dive-bar dive bar, a couple of blocks away from the office. It’s early still, so the place is fairly empty. Ryan snags them a booth away from the lights near the bar and Shane gets the first round. Ryan gets the second, and then Shane flags down the server for their third.

They sit in silence for most of that, drinking steadily until Ryan sets his glass down decisively. Shane looks up from where he’s contemplating a dark stain on the tabletop and meets Ryan’s gaze. There’s something nearly feverish in his friend’s face. 

“Your soulmark,” Ryan says, without preamble, “where is it?”

Too caught off guard to demur, Shane opens his mouth and answers truthfully. “It’s on my heel.” 

“I knew it,” Ryan says, looking smug. 

“How–?” Shane starts to ask, then, “oh, the jello day.” 

“You know my mark has been changing since Cincinnati,” Ryan says, without acknowledging Shane’s interruption. “It started to go a bit green, and it’s just gotten steadily darker since then. It’s gotta be someone I know, someone I see on a regular basis,” Ryan continues, turning his beer glass around in his hands. “Someone who I’m really good friends with, someone who I spend a lot of time with,” Ryan trails off, and lifts his gaze to catch Shane’s eyes with his. 

Shane ducks Ryan’s searching eyes. “We work closely with a lot of people,” Shane says, “could be anyone.” Shane feels like the forced nonchalance is painfully obvious. It could be anyone, he’s right, but also, it’s probably not. Shane’s not always so bright about this sort of thing, but he’s also not completely stupid about it. 

Objectively, Ryan is attractive. That is an observable and unalienable constant of the universe. Same as the speed at which you accelerate towards the ground due to gravity, same as the orbital paths of the planets. Ryan is hot. End of. Not that Shane’s been looking, or anything. 

“I don’t think it’s just anyone,” Ryan argues.

“Could literally be any of the people we work with on a daily basis, Ryan. We all pretty much live in each other’s pockets during filming.” Shane leans back against the back of the bench he’s sitting on. He needs another drink probably. “I need another drink,” he says out loud. 

“Can’t talk about this sober?” Ryan asks. Normally Shane would take the bait and laugh it off, but there’s something almost mean in the curve of Ryan’s smile and Shane can’t.

“No,” Shane agrees easily, “I can’t.” 

Ryan doesn’t seem surprised. He brings the bottle up to his mouth and swallows, draining the whole neck before letting the bottle tilt back. Shane rolls his own bottle between his hands instead of drinking it. Ryan sets his bottle down. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Ryan offers,and Shane is grateful for the easy out. Even with Ryan’s insatiable curiosity, he’s willing to be diverted if Shane really doesn’t want to talk about something, though he will absolutely bring it up later to make sure Shane hasn’t forgotten.

“No.” Shane looks up. He catches on Ryan’s gaze, open and easy and so willing to listen. Shane almost wishes Ryan was less agreeable, that he pushed a little harder. “I do want to,” he says, and then shakes his head. “I’m not sure I can.” 

“Okay,” Ryan agrees, easily. Shane narrows his eyes. “I won’t push unless you want me to,” Ryan says.

They never do talk about it.

– – 

At another bar, a week later, Ryan watches Shane go to get them another round of drinks. He’d pushed away from the table with a frown after Ryan’s last bit of banter had hit a bit harder than Ryan had meant. Since Shane is a head and shoulders taller than most everyone else, Ryan can watch him the whole way back to the bar. Eventually, Shane leans down to speak to the bartender and Ryan loses sight of him. He goes back to looking down at where his hands are spread on the table. 

He’d known as soon as it was coming out of his mouth, that the dig was one step too far. Shane’s face had tightened and his eyes had shuttered. Ryan sighs, and brings one hand up to push through his hair. The product from this morning is still trying to hold on, and it leaves his fingers tacky.

The next time Ryan looks up, Shane’s holding out a beer for him. Ryan takes the bottle and nods up at Shane. 

Shane’s mouth thins. He drops himself into the chair across from Ryan.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan says, before Shane can say anything. “I don’t know what came over me.” 

“It’s fine, Ryan,” Shane says, picking at the label on the neck of his beer bottle.

“Is it though?” Ryan asks. 

“What do you mean?” 

Ryan sits back, leaving one hand resting on the tabletop, the other one falling into his lap. “You’ve been weird lately” 

“Have I?” Shane looks bewildered.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, “you have, since last week.” 

If Ryan’s honest with himself, Shane’s been weird since the day they met, but it’s been especially noticeable lately and he’s starting to think it’s something he did, some invisible button he pushed.

“Oh,” Shane says, “I–uh, I’m sorry?” 

“I just–” Ryan sighs. Across the table, Shane watches him, tension in his shoulders, like he might cut and run. Ryan switches tactics. “Can I tell you something instead?” 

Shane nods and his shoulders relax, but his fingers are still working at the label on his bottle.

“I’m worried,” Ryan says, toying with the label on his own bottle in a mirror of what Shane is still doing. “My mark has gone muddy over the last few days, it doesn’t seem to be staying green. I’m worried that something’s wrong with whoever my soulmate is.” 

“I’m sure they’re okay,” Shane says, serious. He makes an aborted move with one hand, like he’s going to reach across the table. Ryan’s eyes catch the movement and then track how Shane’s hand curls into a fist on the table. 

“How can you be so sure?” Ryan asks, “what if they’re sick, or dying?” 

“Ryan, your soulmate has to be someone we work with, or someone you see regularly. Someone who you’ve gotten close to over the last little while, right?” Without looking up to check and see if Ryan’s following him, Shane continues; “are you sure it’s turning black?” 

Ryan shifts in his chair. He feels like he can feel his soulmark burning under his skin. Which is stupid, because he absolutely can’t. Soulmarks don’t burn or hurt or do anything but lie there, inert, until they start changing colour. Shane watches him. 

“I don’t know, Shane, that’s why I’m worried. It was so green last week, but this week–” Ryan sighs, and reaches up to scrub his hand down his face. Beer forgotten beside his elbow, Ryan leans back in his chair again, looking up at the grimy ceiling above their table. The pendant light that hangs between them is dusty. 

“They turn red don’t they? When you and your soulmate sync up?” Shane asks. 

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, “but what does that have to do with anything?” 

“Have you considered maybe that it’s turning red?” 

Shane’s question goes through Ryan like a knife. He hadn’t really thought about that, in his late night panic in front of his bathroom mirror the previous night. Looking back, he wonders why he hadn’t. But now he has to know who his soulmate is, ‘cause the marks don’t turn red until both people have admitted their feelings. To themselves, at the very least.

“But I can’t have feelings for someone who I don’t even know,” Ryan argues. 

“Is that how it works?” Shane asks. He lifts his beer bottle to his mouth, and Ryan watches as Shane swallows. The bar lights make Shane’s hair, stuck up in many directions ‘cause he’s been running his hands through it all day, seem like a halo. Shane’s eyes slide shut as he tips his head back in order to drink the last of his beer. Ryan can’t drag his eyes away from the long column of Shane’s throat.

When Shane’s finished, he sets the empty bottle down in front of him and Ryan feels the prickling of a flush climbing the back of his neck. Shane’s eyes open slowly, but Ryan still doesn’t have time to look away. Shane catches him looking. Ryan tries to slide his gaze away casually. He’s not sure he succeeds but Shane doesn’t say anything about it, so Ryan takes it as a win regardless.

“It’s not not how it works,” Ryan says, grasping at their previous topic with desperate hands. Across the table, Shane’s eyebrow lifts. “I mean, as far as I know, you don’t _ have _ to know who your soulmate is for your marks to turn red, all it means is both people have admitted their feelings. To themselves, at least.” 

“Oh,” Shane says. “Huh.” 

Ryan doesn’t know what to do with that, so he doesn’t do anything. He lifts his beer, checking the level of liquid and discovers that he’s mostly finished it. One or two more swallows, he thinks. He tilts his head back as he lifts the bottle to finish it. 

Shane’s phone rings then, the shrill tone interrupting the bubble of something that has been settling around them since Shane got back with this round of beers. Shane looks down at his phone, and makes a face, but then he’s gathering it up in one hand putting it up to his ear while he’s pushing himself out of his chair. 

Fifteen minutes later, and Shane’s still not back, so Ryan walks up to the bar and clears their tab. The bartender wishes him a good night and Ryan smiles at her before he turns to go. 

Outside, the air has the barest hint of a chill. Ryan hunches his shoulders under his coat. He looks around for Shane. He finds him, leaning against a telephone pole a little ways down the sidewalk, still on his phone. The conversation looks serious but probably not, Ryan thinks, though it’s difficult to tell for sure from this distance, upsetting. He loiters closer to the bar, pulling his own phone out of his pocket, while he waits for Shane to be done. 

Ryan thumbs over the Lyft app, wavering over whether to call a car or not. Shane’s phone call could be done in a minute, or not for a while. Ryan looks up again. Shane looks up too. He meets Ryan’s gaze and rolls his eyes and puts up a couple of fingers. Ryan decides to wait until Shane’s done and they can decide together whether they want to walk back to the office for their separate vehicles or just take a Lyft home and worry about the cars tomorrow. 

– – 

Christmas without snow is just weird. No matter how long Shane has lived in LA, he still can’t quite get used to it. He always wakes up expecting the touch of frost in the air, and misses the blanketing silence of a heavy snowfall. New York may be the city that doesn’t sleep, but LA just never stops. Even at four am, trudging up the stairs to his apartment door after a long-haul flight, the city is still loud. Behind him, Ryan yawns expansively. 

It’s late December now. 

Shane opens his door and drops his bag just inside. Ryan bundles in after him, coat still buttoned up to his chin. Shane presses the fingers of one hand against the wall beside him as he toes off his shoes. They’re exhausted. The shoot had been long and tiring, and ultimately, in Ryan’s case, unfulfilling. They’d been on the hunt for a pair of murdered lovers in the most Stephen King-esque place to exist outside of Maine, but mostly they’d just stood around in a dusting of snow and talked to the air while a frigid wind cut through every layer like they were wearing nothing.

After extricating himself from his own coat, Shane shuffles towards his couch, dropping down onto it with a sigh. He stretches his legs out beneath the coffee table, and raises his hands over his head, popping his shoulders. Ryan sinks down onto the other end of the couch, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. 

They’re quiet for a long time. 

Maybe it’s because it’s four in the morning, maybe it’s because they’re both running on fumes and sad coffee from the rinky little airport they’d flown out from, but when Shane turns to look at Ryan and realises that Ryan’s fallen asleep, a feeling of fond affection sweeps over him. Ryan’s face has gone slack, the furrow between his brows smoothed away.

“Guess you’re staying,” Shane says, and then yawns himself. 

Ryan’s still wearing his glasses.Shane leans over to pluck them off, and sets them down on the coffee table. Ryan’ll tip over eventually, and Shane hates waking up with the frame of his glasses pressed into his face, so he assumes Ryan does too.

Shane needs to get up and go to bed, but moving seems like an unnecessary chore. His limbs are leaden, and the couch has become infinitely more comfortable than usual. Between one blink and the next, he falls asleep. 

Shane wakes up to the sensation of warmth under his cheek and his glasses digging into the side of his face. The steady rise and fall of his pillow is odd. He blinks. Oh. Sometime in the night, they’d shifted. Ryan’s on his stomach, one arm shoved under one of Shane’s throw pillows and the other dangling down towards the floor. Shane is sandwiched between Ryan and the back of the couch, his head resting against the middle of Ryan’s back. Now that he’s awake, Shane’s aware of how his arm is pinned under Ryan and mostly lifeless, and how his knees are aching from his legs being bent for however long they’ve been sleeping. 

Ryan’s still asleep. His breathing is slow and even. Shane shifts a bit, lifting his head. Ryan’s shirt is rucked up, and that’s when Shane sees it. Ryan’s soulmark. Not the whole thing, because it disappears beneath the waistband of Ryan’s sweats, but enough of it. It’s colour is a bit redder than ochre and is so familiar, because Shane’s is the same exact colour. Something shivers up Shane’s spine. 

Could Ryan… ? No. That’s ridiculous. Why is he thinking about this anyway? Soulmates and fate are a bunch of bullshit. Ryan’s blinding faith in the universe must be contagious. Shane’s eyes stray back to Ryan’s mark. It’s intimate, seeing someone’s mark, and something Shane tries to avoid doing. He can’t stop looking at Ryan’s though. The prickling of a flush climbs the back of Shane’s neck, and he shivers. Ryan makes a noise that sounds like he might be waking up. .

“Ryan?” Shane asks, tearing his gaze away from the line of Ryan’s skin. “You’re lying on my arm.” 

Ryan grunts, but doesn’t move. The light in Shane’s apartment is bright enough that he thinks it’s probably close to mid-morning. 

“Ryan,” Shane says, sharper this time. 

“Sh’n?” Ryan’s voice is thick with sleep. “Why’m I–? Oh.”

They extricate themselves from each other, which is complicated by the fact that Ryan is mostly useless when he’s only been awake for thirty seconds, but eventually they go back to sitting up next to each other. Ryan scuffs a hand through his hair, and then scrubs it down his face, rubbing his eyes before blinking in Shane’s direction. 

“I need a coffee,” Shane says, decisive. Ryan nods, but mostly just looks like he wants to go back to sleep. Shane pushes himself to his feet. “Do you want one?” 

Ryan makes a noise that Shane takes as affirmation. 

– – 

TJ calls the wrap on a post-mortem filming in the late spring, and Ryan watches as Shane scrubs a hand down his face. Shane’s been looking peaky for the last week, like he’s fighting off some kind of bug, but today is definitely the worst that he’s looked. 

“You okay, man?” Ryan asks, as Shane wraps his hands around his mug like he’s trying to absorb the energy of the coffee through osmosis instead of drinking it. 

“Yeah,” Shane says. He sounds tired. “I think I’m coming down with something.” 

“Midwest boy can’t handle a little SoCal cold snap?” Ryan teases, nudging Shane with his elbow. 

“Something like that,” Shane agrees, which is not how Ryan had envisioned that remark landing. Shane pushes himself to his feet and nods down at Ryan before shuffling off their set. Ryan watches Shane’s slumped shoulders until Shane disappears out through the door. TJ catches Ryan’s eyes before Ryan can look down at the pages of notes in front of him. They share a glance and Ryan shrugs. He doesn’t know what’s up with Shane today, or this week, or since they fell asleep together on Shane’s couch before Christmas. 

Because there’s been something strained between them since then. 

Ryan sighs and prods the pages into a neat pile before picking them up and then sliding his phone into his back pocket. Things had been okay that morning, but the next day, Shane’s walls had gone all the way up and Ryan’s been trying to get a peek over them again for the last five months. He’s reminded of having to jump to see over the cemetery wall in New Orleans, standing beside Shane who could see over without even stretching. 

Ryan leaves their set, letting the door close heavily behind him. He resolves that this will end today, even if he has to sit on Shane bodily in order to get him to talk. 

The area near their desks is empty when Ryan walks back out into the bullpen. He drops his notes on an empty spot between Shane’s docked laptop and Ryan’s monitor stand, and then turns around in a full circle, looking for Shane. He’s normally pretty easy to spot, but he’s nowhere in the immediate vicinity. 

Ryan knows Shane though, and he knows where he’ll be if he’s not here. 

The roof access door is propped open when Ryan gets there, a piece of wood wedged between the door and the frame, holding it open just enough that whoever is up here could get their fingers in between and pull the door open. Ryan makes sure to replace the wedge carefully when he gently closes the door as he steps out onto the roof. 

Shane’s certainly not the only person who disappears up to the roof now and again, but somehow, Ryan’s certain it’s Shane who left himself a way to get back downstairs when he was ready.

He’s right. Shane’s leaning on the low wall at the edge of the roof, LA spread out in front of him in all its late spring haze. Ryan closes the distance between them and comes to rest beside Shane, who is still holding onto his coffee cup like it might impart important wisdom at any moment. 

“So, I’m just gonna say something,” Ryan says, without waiting for Shane to acknowledge him. Shane doesn’t. Ryan takes a deep breath and lets it out, slow and measured. He leans on his forearms, feeling the grit of the concrete under his skin. Above them, the sun is still not quite at summer strength.

“You’ve been weird since before Christmas,” Ryan starts, speaking to the city below them instead of looking at Shane. “And I just feel like I should clear the air or something. Like, I don’t know if you’re freaked out about like, falling asleep together or like, waking up like we did, or whatever, but like, I’m not. I wasn’t.”

A breeze kicks up, ruffling Shane’s hair. “It’s not that,” Shane says, voice low and almost lost in the rush of the wind.

“What is it then? Did I do something to make it weird? Like, you gotta tell me, man. I hate this.” Ryan scrubs a hand through his hair, tugging on the ends as he pulls his hand through. “People can tell something’s up between us and I just… if it’s something I’ve done, I wanna try and fix it. You’re like, my best friend, dude, and I don’t–”

“It’s not anything you did,” Shane interrupts. Ryan chances a look at Shane. Shane’s staring down into his coffee cup. “It’s me.” 

“Well, okay then,” Ryan says, turning so he can lean against the wall with his hip and face Shane. “How can I help?” 

“You can’t,” Shane says, immediate. 

“Bullshit,” Ryan retorts. “Stop being a fucking drama queen for thirty seconds and tell me what the fuck is up with you.”

Shane’s brows come down, and his expression goes dark. For a moment, Ryan’s worried he’s pushed just too far, but then Shane’s face smooths out. “You know I don’t believe in soulmarks and all that shit, right?” 

Ryan nods. He does. Shane has told him several times that it’s all a crock of shit and that Ryan would be better off not leaving his relationships to the whims of the universe. 

“Well, I maybe should have re-evaluated that position.” 

Ryan sucks in a breath. Shane sounds miserable, not at all like how Ryan imagines someone should sound about finding out someone is their soulmate. 

“I think I know who my soulmate is supposed to be,” Shane says, “but it can’t be right. They’ve like, definitely already got someone else. Is that even possible, Ryan? You know all about this. Can one person’s soulmate be someone else’s?” 

Ryan opens his mouth to answer, but Shane barrels on. 

“It’s just the same thing as last time, all over again,” he says. “This is why I never believed in any of this shit.” Shane looks over at Ryan. For a moment, in Shane’s eyes, Ryan can see _ everything _. Shane blinks and the moment’s gone. “Never mind,” Shane says, shaking his head. He pats down his pockets like he’s looking for his phone and keys. “Forget I said anything.” 

Shane leaves Ryan standing there and is more than ten steps away before Ryan can manage to get his mouth working again. “Shane! Wait! You can’t just–Christ, dude, you can’t just walk away, okay?” 

Ryan crosses the distance between them and before he can think too much about it, he reaches out. His hand lands on Shane’s forearm which is covered in denim and tense with whatever Shane won’t talk to Ryan about. 

“I don’t like talking about this stuff,” Shane says with a grimace. He looks down at where Ryan’s hand is still holding his arm. 

Ryan nods, letting Shane go. They both let their arms fall back to their sides. “I think you need to, though,” Ryan says, and then, just to make sure Shane knows; “I’m always here to listen, okay? It’s okay to need help with stuff, you know?” 

Shane swallows. Ryan can hear the way his throat clicks when he does it. Shane nods and Ryan watches him deflate, shoulders coming down and the tension in his spine disappearing. 

“Did I tell you about the girl I used to see before I moved to LA?” Shane asks. Ryan shakes his head. “I didn’t think so,” Shane says. He goes back to the wall to lean against it. Ryan joins him, sitting close enough that their shoulders brush as Shane shifts to get comfortable. “We met in a seminar class,” Shane starts, and Ryan listens while Shane tells the story. 

They get to the point where Shane realised her mark had been changing while his own had remained static and Ryan’s stomach drops. Shane keeps going, doggedly telling this story like every word is being forced out of him. The story ends in the way Ryan was afraid it would once Shane started telling it, and once it’s done, Shane looks down at his hands, clenched into fists in his lap. 

“Man,” Ryan says, “that’s so … that’s so fucking shitty. I’m sorry.” He wishes there was something else he could say. 

“It’s not your fault,” Shane says, toneless. 

“I know,” Ryan says, “but still.” He reaches up and plants a hand on Shane’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Ryan lets his hand drop, but doesn’t pull away from Shane’s side. “About your earlier question,” he says, after they’re quiet for a moment. Ryan looks over, catching Shane still in profile.

It’s late afternoon now, and the light is starting to shift. Shane in this light is softened, his hair gilded by the reflection of the sunlight off the buildings around them.

“I don’t know everything about soulmates,” Ryan says. 

“Better write that down,” Shane says, with a sideways glance at Ryan. “Ryan Bergara doesn’t know something.” 

“Shut up, Shane,” Ryan says, without heat. Shane’s mouth quirks like he might smile. It doesn’t bloom fully. Ryan’s own smile is short-lived but genuine. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about though,” Ryan says. 

“No?” 

“No,” Ryan says. His stomach flips as he looks at Shane. The pieces come together like a puzzle in the back of his mind. He hadn’t been sure, until this moment, but now that he’s sat here, next to Shane, the whole thing slots into place. “Oh,” he says, and then brings a hand up to his mouth, surprised that he’d spoken. 

“Oh?” Shane asks. His eyebrows lift as Ryan stays silent. 

“Oh,” Ryan says again. “Oh, Jesus. Shit. It’s you.” 

Silence descends in the aftermath of Ryan’s declaration. Shane blinks at Ryan, looking completely confounded. 

“What? Ryan? Are you having a stroke?” Shane turns slightly where he’s sitting, as if to get a better look at Ryan. 

“It’s you. This whole time. I’ve been fucking agonizing about this whole thing and it was right there in front of my fucking face. Christ.” Ryan sighs. He looks up at Shane, catching his gaze. They’re close enough that Ryan can see the freckles standing out on Shane’s nose from the extra sun he’d gotten this weekend. Ryan bets, dollars to donuts, that if he looked at his soulmark right now, he’d get to watch it bleed from ochre into red because the love that bursts through him feels like something anyone who looks at him should be able to see. His whole body thrums with it. 

“Shane,” Ryan says, voice hoarse. “Look–look at your foot.” 

Shane’s eyebrows do a complicated thing and then his face rolls through a series of expressions that Ryan can’t quite translate before settling on curiosity. “Look at my foot? Ryan, really, are you having a fucking stroke? Do I need to call someone?” 

“Look at your foot, Shane.” 

Something in Ryan’s voice must convince Shane to do what he’s told because Ryan watches him untie his shoe, pull it off and then pull down his sock, revealing his heel. Shane’s eyes widen as he notices the deepened colour of the mark on his foot. He looks back up at Ryan, eyebrows almost to his hairline.

“Mine’s here,” Ryan says, reaching back to touch his own mark.

“I know,” Shane says, voice thick. 

“How–? You know what, never mind. Lemme show you,” Ryan says, sliding to his feet and pulling his shirt up and the waist of his pants down. He turns so Shane can see. 

There’s the tentative brush of fingers against the small of Ryan’s back, and then a firmer touch, right against his mark. 

“It’s the same shape,” Shane says, faint. Ryan cranes his head around so he can look at Shane while Shane continues to look at his back. “It’s the same–Ryan, it’s the same.” 

“I know,” Ryan says, something giddy fizzing in his veins. Shane’s thumb sweeps across Ryan’s mark and Ryan shivers, goosebumps rippling all the way up his spine. 

“You're my–” Shane stops, and his eyes flick up to meet Ryan’s. 

“Yeah,” Ryan says, letting go of his shirt, and turning around fully to face Shane. Shane’s hand stays on his hip, warm and solid. “I just realised.” 

“But your mark has been changing and so has mine and–” Shane’s mouth drops open. There’s a beat of silence, and then Shane’s laughing, his shoulders shaking and his arms crossed around his middle. “Oh my god,” he says, wheezing on more laughter, “we’re so fucking dumb. Holy shit.” 

When Ryan doesn’t join in on his laughter, Shane lets it trail off into silence. He reaches out, and skates his fingers along the cut of Ryan’s jaw. “I’m not laughing at you, Ryan,” he says, voice serious. Ryan wants to lean into the press of Shane’s hand against the side of his face. Shane sighs. “I’m laughing ‘cause we coulda just talked about this, like the grown ups the government seems to think we are, and like, avoided this whole protracted thing.” 

“Protracted?” 

“Yeah, Ryan, c’mon, don’t tell me you never–?” 

“Never what?” Ryan asks, though he’s beginning to think he might know what Shane’s asking. 

“Ryan,” Shane says, on a sigh. Ryan thinks he might want to hear Shane say his name like that again, but maybe with a little less exasperation. 

“Shane,” Ryan answers, in the same tone. Shane’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. It’s contagious and Ryan finds himself smiling too. 

“I’m going to do something stupid now,” Shane says after a moment of smiling goofily at each other. 

“Okay,” Ryan says, suddenly breathless. His hands clench uselessly by his side and he fights down the urge to wipe them off on his thighs. He can feel the prickle of a flush climbing the back of his neck. “Do your worst,” Ryan suggests, when Shane doesn’t move. 

“I will,” Shane says, barely above a whisper. They’re both moving closer, two objects in a terminal orbit around each other, unable to fight the pull of gravity.

Ryan’s heartbeat thunders in his ears. Shane leans down and in, presses a kiss to the corner of Ryan’s mouth and then leans back. Ryan follows him, rising up onto his toes and leaning in, one hand coming up to fist in Shane’s shirt, to pull him closer. The kiss doesn’t quite land on target, but then Shane’s hand shifts back into Ryan’s hair and tilts his head and then it’s perfect. 

– – 

It’s not so different than being friends with Ryan, Shane decides, about six months later, while they’re picking their way along a trail in the woods of the Pacific Northwest. They still hunt ghouls, they still sleep in shitty beds or on hard floors, except now they do it even more together than they had previously done it. 

Shane curls around Ryan in whatever bed they’re sharing, or sleeping bag they’ve zipped together, arm thrown over Ryan’s waist and the heat of Ryan’s skin bleeding into Shane in all the places they’re touching. Ryan still takes an inordinate amount of time to become coherent after waking up, but now Shane can deploy different tactics to chivvy him out of bed. He does still use a lot of the same ones as he used to, because nothing suits him more than seeing Ryan’s face scrunch up as he sleepily glares at Shane. Now he gets to smooth out the furrow in between Ryan’s brows by leaning into press a messy kiss into the space there. Which always makes Ryan grumble, and push Shane off. 

Now, Shane gets to grab for Ryan’s hand as they clamber over a rockfall, and he gets to keep a hold of it while they stand on the edge of the lookout. The forest spreads beneath them in a thick blanket of foliage as they stand as close to the edge as they dare. Shane wants to sit right on it, hang his legs out into the nothing below and make Ryan’s heart rate jump. He wants Ryan to pull him up, and drag him back from the edge and wrap his arms around him, tucking his head under Shane’s chin. 

Shane wants to get done with this shoot at this isolated cabin another couple hundred feet along this trail, so he can get Ryan back to the hotel where they’re booked for the rest of the weekend and see what Ryan looks like bathed in the soft light from the bedside lamp. He wants to hold Ryan’s hand as they pick through the kitschy tourist trap stores on the main drag, and he will. He loves this idiot, has done for a while and even though neither of them have said it, he knows Ryan feels the same. The way their marks have continued to deepen into crimson is all the proof Shane really needs. He doesn’t need Ryan to say the words. The words are nice, of course, but they are unimportant in the face of what he has already.

Ryan steps towards the edge of the lookout, still a careful distance back, and leans a little so he can peer over. “First step’s a doozy, but shouldn’t be a problem for you,” he says, turning to look at Shane. It’s a long once over that starts at Shane’s feet and sweeps all the way up and then back down. Heat blooms all the way down to Shane’s toes at the obviously appreciative appraisal.

“Oh yeah, yuk it up,” Shane says, “remember we gotta sleep with the axe murdering ghosties tonight, so you better get your hits in now.” 

Ryan blanches. “Fuck,” he says, “I fucking forgot.” 

“You forgot we were planning to have our own Cabin in the Woods adventure tonight?” Shane asks. 

Ryan shakes his head. “Not, not really. Just, you know, I’ve been enjoying hiking and stuff with you today, I kind of completely forgot we were out here for work.” 

“Oh,” Shane says, stupidly touched. He reaches out for Ryan’s hand and hauls him in for a hug. Ryan tucks his head under Shane’s chin and Shane wraps his arms all the way around Ryan’s waist. “I’ve had fun too,” he says, and Ryan snorts. 

“You’re lucky I love you,” Ryan says, when he steps back out of the circle of Shane’s arms. The words are a sucker punch that Shane feels in every joint. Ryan’s eyes widen almost comically. He looks like he’s a second away from a solid 8 on the Ryan Bergara freak out scale, so Shane takes pity on him and leans in to kiss him. 

When they break apart, Ryan’s wide-eyed for a whole different reason. Shane only pulls away far enough that he can press their foreheads together. “I love you, too, idiot,” Shane says. Ryan’s smile is a slow bloom. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please come and chat with me about my fic on [tumblr](http://sequencefairy.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/warpspeed_chic).


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